Wrote on a tomb ftone, where is laid the skull of a man.
HY ftart! The cafe is yours, or will be soon,
Some years perhaps, perhaps another moon.
Life in its utmost span is but a breath,
And they who longeft dream, muft wake in death.
Like you I once thought ev'ry blifs fecure,
And gold of ev'ry ill the certain cure;
Till steep'd in forrows and befieg'd with pain,
Too late I found all earthly riches vain.
Disease with scorn threw back the fordid fee,
And Death ftill answer'd, What is gold to me?
Fame, titles, honours next I vainly fought,
And fools obfequious nurs'd the childish thought.
Circled with brib'd applause and purchas'd praise,
I built on endless grandeur endless days;
But death awak'd me from a dream of pride,
And laid a prouder beggar by my fide.
Pleafure I courted and obey'd my taste,
The banquet fmil'd, and fmil'd the gay repast.
A loathfome carcafe was my conftant care,
And worlds were ranfack'd but for me to share.
Go on, vain man, in luxury be firm,
Yet know I feasted, but to feast a worm.
Already fure lefs terrible I feem,
And you like me can own that life's a dream.
Whether that dream may boast the longest date,
Farewel, remember left you wake too late.
Wrote on another tomb ftone where is laid the skull of a woman.
BLUSH not, ye fair, to own me, but be wife,
Nor turn from fad mortality your eyes.
Fame fays, and Fame alone can tell how true,
I once was lovely, and belov'd like you.
Where are my vot'ries-where my flatt'rers now?
Gone with the subject of each lover's vow.
Adieu the roses red, and lilies white,
Adieu thofe eyes, which made the darkness light.
No more alas! that coral lip is feen,
Nor longer breathes the fragrant gale between.
Turn from your mirror, and behold in me,
At once what Thousands can't, or dare not fee.
Unvarnish'd I the real truth impart,
Nor here am plac'd but to direct the heart.
Survey me well-ye fair ones, and believe,
The grave may terrify-but can't deceive,
On beauty's fragil base no more depend,
Here youth and pleasure, age and forrow end;
Here drops the mask-here shuts the final scene,
Nor differs grave threefcore, from gay fifteen.
All prefs alike to that fame goal, the tomb,
Where wrinkled Laura fmiles at Chloe's bloom.
When coxcombs flatter, and when fools adore
Learn here the leffon to be vain no more.
Yet virtue ftill against decay can arm,....
And even lend mortality a charm.
Secluded far from human fight,
Attend my fleecy care,
But till my eyes are feal'd in night,
Thou shalt partake my pray'r.
III.
My cottage on a rifing ground,
Near to a friendly fhade,
A ruin fhall my profpect bound,
With greens that never fade.
Some murm'ring brooks within my view,
That not too lifeless flow,
Whilft I the paths of truth pursue,
Both time and chance will fhew.
But if thou bring'ft thy heart again,
Untainted and fincere,
I'll laugh at all my prefent pain,
And banish every fear.
Then like a fhip the tempeft toft,
I'll blefs the friendly fhore,
Forget the dangers that are paft,
But venture out no more.
HEN the nymphs were contending for beauty and fame,
Fair Sylvia ftood foremost in right of her claim,
When to crown the high tranfports dear conqueft excites,
At court she was envy'd end toafted at White's.'
But how fhall I whisper this fair one's fad cafe?
A cruel disease has fpoil'd her fweet face;
Her vermillion is changed to a dull fettled red,
And all the gay graces of beauty are fled.
Yet take heed all ye fair how you triumph in vain,
For Sylvia, tho' alter'd from pretty to plain,
Is now more engaging fince reafon took place,
Than when the poffeffed the perfections of face.
IV.
Convinc'd the no more can coquet it and teaze,
Inftead of tormenting-fhe ftudies to please;
Makes truth and difcretion the guides of her life,
And tho' spoil'd for a toast, she's well form'd for a wife.
A copy of Verfes, on feeing a boy walk on filts, by
Leaving the grammar, for his play,
Forgetful of the rod :
Tott'ring on filts, through mire, and dirt,
The school boy ftroles abroad.
Why does this innocent delight
Provoke the pedant's fpleen;
Look round the world, thou fool and fee
The use of this machine.
The tricking statesman, prop'd by these,
His virtues boafts aloud;
And on his guilded ftilts, fublime,
Steps o'er the murmuring crowd.
Through fields of blood, the general stalks,
And fame fits on his hilt;
The fword, or gun, at length bestows
An honourable stilt...
When quite deferted by the Mufe,
The finking fonneteer,
Hammers in vain a thoughtless verse,
To please Belinda's ear:
The mighty void of wit he ftops
With a successful chime ;
On ftilts poetic rifes quick,
And leans upon his rhime.
With well diffembled anguish, fee!
The canting rafcal beg,
And by a counterfeit gain more
Yet on the boy's inftructive sport,
Is this contrivance built;
The fource from whence his gains arife,
What is it, but a tilt ?...
Corinna fair, of ftature low,
Yet, this defect fupplies,
By heels, like ftilts, which may affift
The conquest of her eyes.
See! in his fecond childhood faint,
The old man walks with pain;
On crutches imitates his ftilts,
And acts the boy again.
So well concerted is this art,
It fuits with all conditions:
Heroes, and ladies, beggars, bards,
And boys, and politicians.
Long through the various courfe of life,
Each artist walks unhurt,
Till death, at laft, kicks up his ftilts,
And lays him in the dirt.
-Nimium ne crede Colori.-VIRG.
AN age there was, fome authors teach,
When all things were endued with speech,
Nor plant, nor bird, nor fish, nor brute,
Nor thing inanimate was mute;
Their converse taught or these men lie-
Better than books, morality.
One grain more faith afford me now;
It asks but one more grain, I vow,
Speech on mere vifions to bestow.
Then you'll believe, that truth I tell,
That what I now relate befell.
Calm was the day, the fky was clear,
Save that a light cloud here and there,
Floating amid the azure plain,
Promis'd fome gentle showers of rain:
Tho' Men are faithlefs, Clouds are true,
As by the fequel foon I'll fhew.
Sol from the zenith now departed,
Eastward his rays obliquely darted,
The clouds, late glorious of the day,
By western winds are borne away,
"Till to the east each vapour blown,
In lucid fhow'rs came gently down.
Now full oppos'd to Phoebus rays,
Iris her vivid tints displays;
A wat'ry mirror fpread below,
To her own eyes her beauties fhew.
I scarce can think Narciffus eyed
Reflected beauty with fuch pride;
Or modern belle for birth-night drefs'd,
Raptures fo exquifite exprefs'd,
Some time enamour'd o'er the lake
She hung, then thus fhe fpake.
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